One spring evening before dinner I was sitting next to Dad at the dinner table - I was in Clare's regular seat. He and I were discussing one thing or another, having an enjoyable exchange, when he asked me something he had never asked me before. He asked me if I wanted a drink.
Quite taken aback, I blurted, "Sure!" I wanted the moment to continue. He got up - nothing would do but he would pour it himself - and returned from the kitchen drink in hand.
I raised it to my face and sniffed - I pretty much knew what it smelled like, but this was new. A glass of Cutty Sark on the rocks of my very own. Cautiously I sipped and I don't know if my faced betrayed me, but the arresting arpeggio of flavor and heat of alcohol filled my senses. In a flash.
The difficulty for a beginning drinker is bad enough, with the it-must-be-acquired taste of the drink, and the fire in the nose, foodpipe, and belly - but it all happens so fast. It's a lot to take in.
I adjusted tolerably enough, I guess, and I looked at the rather stiff potion remaining in my glass and began to worry. Our talk continued companionably; if Dad were amused or put off or whatever, he didn't show it. Sip followed sip, talk continued, the table was set around us as dinner rapidly approached.
After a short while of this, my GI and nervous systems were telling me that I had better change course. So I did. I had worked like a yeoman on the scotch, but I told Dad, "Sorry, I can't finish this," and set it before him.
He leaned back slightly and looked at me and said, "I'm impressed!" I stared at him. He said, "That took a certain amount of courage and self-awareness. I'm very proud of you. Well done."
Truly a cocktail hour for surprises.
Quite taken aback, I blurted, "Sure!" I wanted the moment to continue. He got up - nothing would do but he would pour it himself - and returned from the kitchen drink in hand.
I raised it to my face and sniffed - I pretty much knew what it smelled like, but this was new. A glass of Cutty Sark on the rocks of my very own. Cautiously I sipped and I don't know if my faced betrayed me, but the arresting arpeggio of flavor and heat of alcohol filled my senses. In a flash.
The difficulty for a beginning drinker is bad enough, with the it-must-be-acquired taste of the drink, and the fire in the nose, foodpipe, and belly - but it all happens so fast. It's a lot to take in.
I adjusted tolerably enough, I guess, and I looked at the rather stiff potion remaining in my glass and began to worry. Our talk continued companionably; if Dad were amused or put off or whatever, he didn't show it. Sip followed sip, talk continued, the table was set around us as dinner rapidly approached.
After a short while of this, my GI and nervous systems were telling me that I had better change course. So I did. I had worked like a yeoman on the scotch, but I told Dad, "Sorry, I can't finish this," and set it before him.
He leaned back slightly and looked at me and said, "I'm impressed!" I stared at him. He said, "That took a certain amount of courage and self-awareness. I'm very proud of you. Well done."
Truly a cocktail hour for surprises.
A beautiful tribute to Dad's fathering. Noticing what was really going on in the moment took a fair amount of insight on his part. Thanks for the lovely story.
ReplyDeleteI remember that particular incident was followed up over the years with many a full glass of Cutty Sark and Fritos and cheese. I loved it.
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